It Began With 'I Hate You'
by Aline Anais
Summary: Rory meets Logan for the first time, and it's not all too-perfect.
1. It Began With Booze

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**I do not own Gilmore Girls. I only wish I did.**

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It was some strange twist of fate that resulted in me accidentally agreeing to go to this Halloween party. It hadn't been planned or anything, but it just happened.

Paris had been gone…out, actually having a life and taking a satisfying whiff of the freedom of college life. I had been writing my English paper about the fascinating world of Lewis Carroll. Slightly creepy as he may have been, he was also nothing short of a genius.

Anyways, there was a knock on the door. Interruptions don't sit well with me, but I wasn't going to yell through the door to 'Go away!'

And it was Marty. Who was stuttering, as usual. Talking doesn't sit well with him.

Something about a Halloween party on Saturday. He was asking a rush of questions after another, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"Have you h-heard about it? It's in the Eli House. D-do you know where that is?" he seemed to be spitting the words out with difficulty.

"No, not really. And yea," I said, answering his questions as fast as I could. Only, when I said 'And yea,' Marty had just asked a new question.

"Would you like to go with me?" His face lit up when I said 'yea.'

"Oh, actually, wait, I…" I stumbled over my words, trying to remedy my error.

"You'd go with me? That's great!" he said. His smile was so wide that I thought his face was going to break.

"Oh…yea, I'll go," I said, giving up completely. Telling him I really didn't want to go with him was too cruel for my taste. I blame my mom, who could barely turn down Kirk. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

And that's why I'm standing at the door, dressed in a white mass of fabric. I'm supposed to be a ghost, but I look more like a rather scrawny abominable snowman.

Marty is dressed up as some Lord of the Rings character. He captured a hobbit to the T, with the weird looking feet to top it off.

"You look great," he says, grinning that helplessly pathetic smile.

"Thanks…and, um—so do you," I say, stepping out of the room.

Earlier today, I had to endure Paris' constant snickers and sniggers. Not only was I going to a Halloween party with Marty, a.k.a. Naked Guy, but I looked like a yeti.

Marty and I walk over to Eli House in awkward silence. I try to make some conversation, wanting to erase the tension.

"So…" I say, just as he begins to say something.

"You go first," he says, nodding at me.

I realize I have no idea what I was going to say. "No, you go first…" I say, pausing.

"No, I insist." Stupid chivalry.

"I was just going to comment on the weather," I say.

"Oh." And with that, we are submerged back into silence again.

The party, however, is loud and rowdy, probably laden with gallons of alcohol. There are ten-plus guys gathered around a beer fountain, yelling and cheering. I'm prepared to bet that everyone in this room has had at least enough alcohol to fuzz up their brain.

"Hey," I yell at Marty over the din of everything, "What are you doing?"

He is reaching for one of the beer fountains. He presses the nozzle and sprays some in his mouth. "Want some?" he yells.

"What? No!" I say, hitting him on the shoulder. "That's disgusting. People could have put their mouth on that thing." Truthfully, I just don't feel comfortable, especially since the drunken guys at another fountain are eying me creepily.

Suddenly, loud shouts and cheers erupt on my right. A blonde guy pushes his way out of the cheering crowd, a girl on each arm.

I roll my eyes at him and turn back to Marty, who is still hogging the beer fountain. "Let's go, Marty," I say, grabbing him by his shoulder and pulling him away from the fountain. As I drag him away, his hand slips on the nozzle, and the hose points straight to the blonde boy and his girl toys.

And the stream of beer hits them. A hushed silence falls over the people around us, staring at the spectacle.

The blonde guy is blinking drops of beer from his eyes. He tightens his mouth, opens his eyes, and glares daggers at Marty.

From somewhere in the crowd, I hear someone shouting "Fight!"

And the chant begins, with everyone yelling it: "Fight, fight, fight!" Even people who don't even know what's going on shout along, just wanting something actually interesting to happen.

Marty's eyes are wide. He looks paralyzed.

The blonde guy drops his arms from around his girls' shoulders and walks over in our direction slowly.

"I can't fight this guy, this…loser," he shouts over the chanting. Marty doesn't say anything. He doesn't defend himself. Doesn't try to stand up for himself.

The blonde guy stops right in front of Marty. "I can't fight you," he says, and grabs the beer hose and points it straight in Marty's face.

And the crowd erupts, half in jeers, half in cheers. Eyes closed, Marty backs away, trying to shield himself from the spray of beer. He trips over his feet and falls to the ground.

My hands are over my mouth. The blonde guy keeps laughing and soaking Marty to the skin.

Marty is my friend. He talks with me, jokes with me. And so I do what I'm supposed to do, as his friend.

I charge at the blonde boy, knock the beer hose from his hand, and give him a hard shove.

And the party goes silent again, as I erupt in anger.

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	2. Then There Were Little White Lies

**Thanks for the all positive feedback, amigos! Here's another chapter for you…I might not get to update that much for the rest of this week, unless I get super-motivated by…I don't know…some reviews maybe?**

**Anyways, enjoy:**

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"I hate you. I hate people with the likes of you," I'm shaking in anger as I round on the blonde guy. "You think you can do whatever you want, just because you've got a Porsche and a heaping trust fund, but you're nothing more than a…a—moronic, supercilious malefactor…" I realize how stupid my words sound as they fly out of my mouth.

Everyone stares.

I feel quite embarrassed, causing such a scene. "I…yea. I hate you," I say, trying to gain back some of my esteem.

The blonde guy stares. And lets out a bark of a laugh, throwing his head back while he enjoys himself at my expense.

"Hey!" I say, finding myself redden in anger again.

He still laughs. And now everyone's laughing, making me feel like I'm some sort of spectacle at the zoo. I half expect someone to start throwing ripe tomatoes at me. That's bad, because I'm wearing my white bedsheet from my dorm. Plus, I'm not really a tomato-fan. I consider myself more of a potato person.

But tomatoes and potatoes do not pose a problem in my present plight at this particular part of the party. I mentally remind myself to try that tongue-twister later. But now, the blonde guy looks me in the eye squarely, with a serious expression plastered on his face.

"What? You hate me because of what happened last night? I told you, I'm not a relationship kind of guy. It's your fault you didn't believe me and decided to do it anyways," he smirks, as everyone 'oooohs.'

I blanch. "WHAT?" I roar, eyes as wide as dinner plates. "WHAT did you say, you bastard?!" The crowd 'oooohs' and coos and cheers and jeers and whistles and…I got nothing. But anyways, the crowd does all that; I feel like I'm on a Jerry Springer show.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there this morning," he says, still with that smirk glued on his face. "Sweetie," he adds with flourish.

My face is turning colors again: from white to red to purple to red again. "I would NEVER do…that…with you, you liar. I don't even know who you are," I say, trying to redeem myself. I wish everyone else in the room weren't hanging onto my every word.

"Whatever you say, honey," the blonde guy says. He winks at me, before shooting me another smirk.

And with that, I explode. I glare at him, and before I know it, my feet are acting on my behalf. I take long, quick strides towards him, wind up, and slap him on the side of his face so hard that I feel my hand tingle.

Dead silence.

I grab a beer hose, turn towards him, and say, "Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt? Does this feel better?" and I let him have it.

I get him right in the face, the cold rush of beer smacking him right where I had.

"Hope you don't need some ice with that," I say, dropping the hose on the ground. I back away, and grab Marty by the shoulder.

He is still on the ground, cowering, when I pull him off the ground. I lead him towards the door, feeling a thousand eyes boring into my back. I push Marty towards the door and turn back, feeling quite smug with myself.

"Thanks for the great time. Let's do this again soon, huh?" I say to all the people watching. I flash a smile and turn back towards the exit, right before getting nailed in the face by the swinging door.

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	3. And Some Stories of Milk and Hamburgers

**Thanks for the delightful reviews, all! Lovely. Now here's a new chapter, longer-ish this time.**

**I do not own Gilmore Girls. I simply pretend I do.**

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Sunday morning is miserable. I wake up late, and it's only then that I remember that I forgot to set my alarm. I climb out of bed and slide into my slippers.

Paris is in the living room, well-rested, well-fed; and overall, better off than I am at this point.

"Good morning, Paris," I yawn, shuffling to the fridge.

"You mean, good noon," Paris says, pointing at the clock.

"Oh," I groan. It's 12:08. "I was supposed to wake up at eight, make myself a masterpiece bowl of cereal, and start working on my paper again at…nine-thirty."

"Yea, so much for that," Paris says, flicking open the newspaper. "Wait a second…what happened at the party last night anyways? You just came storming in at midnight and slammed your door."

I feel myself blushing again, remembering the precise details of the previous night. I try to shrug nonchalantly. "Oh, nothing. It was a boring party."

"What happened to your nose?" Paris says, getting out of her chair to closely inspect my face.

"My...what are you doing?" I say. Paris squints at me, getting a little too close for my taste.

"Did you get in a fight? Punched in the face? Who was it? Was it that girl from your English class who called you 'Gil-whore'? I knew she was a bad one," Paris says in two seconds flat, shaking her head. "Want me to go kung-fu on her sorry a—"

"Paris," I interrupt, rubbing my sore temples. "It was a door."

"Way to put the fire out; I really needed some justification to practice my new kung-fu moves," Paris says, rolling her eyes and turning. "Care to explain how you got beat up by a door?"

"Swinging," I say ruefully, pulling a milk carton from the fridge. "A _swinging_ door."

"As if that makes it sound any better. What happened?"

I pour myself a cup of milk and take a sip.

"Oh," Paris says, cringing. "That milk is probably—"

"Sour," I finish, making a face. I race towards the sink to spit out the month-old milk and dump the rest down the sink.

"Eew. That's disgusting," Paris says, twisting her face so that she looks like she's the one who just got a mouthful of sketchy milk.

"Yea," I say quickly, wanting to avoid any explanation of last night's events. "Well, better go work on that—"

"Nice try. For the last time, what happened?"

"What are you going to do if I refuse to tell you?" I say, blushing again, trying to stall and avoid spilling the proof of my stupidity out on the table. "Try some kung-fu on me?"

"I wouldn't completely rule that out," Paris says, crossing your arms. "Just tell me already!" she says, her voice bordering on a hiss.

"Oh, fine," I say, rolling my eyes and taking a seat across from her. "I had a freak-out yesterday," I say. "I haven't had one of those since…Chilton. When I missed that English test."

"And when you chewed me out in front of the class," Paris says, nodding. "Yeah, that's completely forgotten. Go on."

"And, well, I kind of…_slapped_ someone…at the party." Paris' face looks like it's about to crack from surprise. "Before you interrupt, it wasn't the girl from English class. It was this guy—"

"You hit a guy?" Paris looks astonished. "I'm impressed, Gilmore," she says, nodding her head fervently. "And why the sudden violence?"

I pause. "He…" I try to find some words to describe what happened. "Was being a jerk." I explain exactly what happened, and at the end, Paris is bouncing with excitement.

"This is so exciting!" Paris says, looking positively delighted.

"What?" I say, feeling glummer by the second. "That I hit a guy, embarrassed myself in front of a million people, feel like my nose is broken, or just started convulsing because I haven't had coffee in 12 hours?"

"That you hit a guy, stupid," Paris says, ignoring the rest of my comment. "Do you know who it was?"

"No idea," I say, shaking from lack of coffee. "Okay, coffee emergency. Now. Got to go get some before I faint of fatigue," I say, sprinting towards the door and grabbing my purse.

"Never mind the fact that you're in your pajamas and slippers!" Paris yells after me.

"Emergency. Means 'a sudden crisis requiring action.' Look it up." And I'm out, heading towards my hospital, which is incidentally the coffee cart just outside the building.

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Ten minutes later, I'm cradling my very lifeline in my hands as I chug a large coffee back in my room.

"Feel any better?" Paris says, rolling her eyes.

"A million times better," I say, sipping my coffee contentedly. The curtains on the living room window have been drawn, letting the light filter through the glass.

Paris glances out the window towards passing students, all looking quite lethargic. "You're insane. And you're going to die of caffeine overdose."

"Well, then either way I'll be dead. With and without coffee. So I guess you'll have to learn to deal with the tribulations of life without my skillful guidance."

"I don't think that will be too much of a problem," Paris snorts. She squints at passersby outside. "Oh, here _he _comes," she hisses, getting up from her chair.

"Who?" I say, following her gaze. I leap from my chair. "That's him! That's him, the guy that I slapped last night!" I say, pointing at the blonde guy as he stands at the coffee cart.

"The guy at the coffee cart?" Paris says, shoving away the curtains to see better.

"Yea, that's him."

"No," Paris says.

"Yeah, that's him, the guy I slapped."

"No," Paris says.

"Yes, it is," I protest, getting aggravated. "What's the matter?"

"That's Logan Huntzberger." Paris looks like she's about to faint.

"Huntz-what-a?" I say. "Sounds like 'hamburger.' Why does that matter?"

"Huntzberger. Son of Mitchum Huntzberger, owner of The Daily Draft, Worldly Wise, The New Haven Gazette…" Paris begins listing off newspapers.

"I…what?" I say, feeling a little ill.

"You slapped the son of the owner of almost every major newspaper in a hundred mile radius," Paris says, nodding in a final sort of way.

"Oh, lovely," I say collapsing onto my chair. "Lovely, lovely, lovely."

"Now if you want a job in a newspaper, you'll probably not be able to get hired," Paris says very matter-of-factly.

"Thanks for rubbing it in," I say.

"Why don't you go apologize?" Paris suggests, crossing her arms in thought.

"Not to that jerk, no!" I say.

"Do you want to be a reporter?" Paris says.

"Well, yes, but…so? I can work for someone else besides his dad," I say.

"If I were you, I wouldn't play my chances," Paris says in a singsong voice.

"No. Not doing it. Never," I say.

"Fine, I—" Paris begins.

We've been so caught up in our own conversation that we haven't noticed Logan Huntzberger himself has walked up to our window.

There's a rap on the window. And it's him.

He flashes a grin, and mouths 'hi' through the glass.

I roll my eyes and draw the curtains close with a snap.

"Why'd you do that for?" Paris demands. "Just go apologize and don't take your chances in the newspaper arena."

I shake my head. I am about to peek out the curtains to see if he's gone, but there's rap on the door.

"Oh, man," I say. "It's him again."

Paris shakes her head at me, and turns to the door.

"Don't you open that door," I say, shaking a finger at Paris in warning.

"Uh-huh," Paris says, reaching for the doorknob.

And Logan Huntzberger is leaning against the doorframe, waiting.

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**Sorry this chapter evades the cuteness that is Logan, but he's coming up in the next chapter, so no worries.**

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	4. Then Came Lessons of Hostess Etiquette

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"What do you want?" Paris says, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Nice to see you, too, Paris," Logan says crisply with a smirk. His eyes flicker beyond Paris and to me, and I stiffen. He gives me a grin.

I wonder how Paris knows this jerk. Then again, birds of a feather flock together [Just kidding, although I am a little steamed that Paris opened the door in the first place].

Paris doesn't say anything, but her eyes narrow into small steely slits. I can almost see the fire coming out of her nose.

"Ahem. Well, Paris; I need help coming up with a fresh new topic for the Daily News, and Doyle sent me to see you about it," Logan says smoothly crossing his arms.

Not even bothering to hide it, I roll my eyes at him. He's just biding his time with Paris, and after a few minutes, he's going to taunt me about what happened last night.

"That bastard," Paris mutters to herself, rolling her eyes.

"Excuse me?" Logan says, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Nothing," Paris snaps, and she throws the door open to let him in our dorm.

He glides in and hovers towards our couch. He stands there for a moment, eyeing Paris. Paris and I take a seat on the twin velvet armchairs adjacent to the couch.

Logan stands there, before the couch, like a fool.

"Well," I snap at him. "Are you going to sit down, or what?" Arms crossed, I glare at him with a look that could kill a tiger dead.

"It's impolite to one to sit down without being invited first," he says, looking at me expectantly. He says this as if it is simply a recitation, something memorized.

"Then sit—" Paris begins.

"Suit yourself, then," I interrupt, shrugging my shoulders. "What were you saying, Paris," I ask her, tilting my head sweetly.

"Me? Oh…oh, nothing," Paris grins wickedly. "So, Hamburg—I mean, Huntzberger," Paris blushes crimson at her fluster. "A fresh new topic, you say? I think the paper could use an enlightening view of the wild partying here at Yale, don't you think? I heard there was quite an _interesting_ party only last night," Paris says, placing her hands in her lap innocently.

I am going to kill Paris Geller.

"Hmm, wild partying?" Logan begins, rocking on his heels in thought. "Can't say I'm the best person to actually write an article about this…I'm more of a vicarious partier," he says.

Paris snorts. "If that's not the perfect topic for you, I don't know what is. Now I believe you've met Rory, here?" Paris changes tacks at the speed of light.

Logan glances my way again. "Rory…?"

"Gilmore," Paris finishes, nodding her head in anticipation.

"Rory Gilmore…can't say I have," Logan says, shrugging his shoulders.

My jaw drops. Paris' does, too. Does he really not remember me? It was only last night…that I soaked him to the bone with a beer hose, and he doesn't remember me?!

"Oh…oh no?" Paris says tentatively. "Well, that's a…a shame." Call the news stations, shout it out the windows, and fly those banners! Paris Geller is at loss for words. She was so looking forward to see me and Logan Hamburger have it out in our living room.

"I should be going soon," Logan says, glancing at his watch, probably noting the awkward silence.

"All right," I say, getting up to usher him out the door. I all but shove him into the hallway. "Sorry we didn't invite you to sit down. Maybe another time," I say in a rush.

Logan raises his brow at me. "O…kay. And, Paris," he begins, talking to her behind my shoulder. "I'll tell Doyle that I'll get someone else's help for topic-fishing," he says, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. With that, he turns and disappears down the hall.

"That…that….BASTARD!" Paris shrieks, waving her arms in the air like a madwoman. She follows with crazy muttering, more to herself than to me.

"Paris! Calm down!" I say, trying to placate her.

"Did he really forget you?" she says. "How can he forget when you sprayed beer on his sorry little—"

"I don't know," I say, at loss. "Oh well, then. It's good he forgot…now I don't have to worry about his dad and the newspapers and the embarrassment…no, this is much better," I say, nodding.

"But it would have been so much _fun_ to see you have a freak-out…and not be at the other end of the gun," Paris says slowly.

I glare at her. "Oh, shut up."

The coffee line is long. After adding the finishing touches on my English paper, I head out to the coffee cart to get yet another cup of life.

There must be ten people ahead of me in line. I check my watch impatiently, rocking on my heels. My Sunday is running out.

"Rory Gilmore…right?" a voice whispers from behind.

I turn around expectantly. Making a face, I realize it's Logan Huntzberger.

"Yeah. And you're Huntzberger," I say, barely nodding at him.

"That'd be me," he nods, grinning. "Why the sad face? You regretting your lack of hostess skills? You thinking that you should have invited me to sit on your couch?" he smirks.

I roll my eyes. "Only wishing I could have stayed in my room and avoided you," I say, narrowing my eyes. I turn away from him, hair swishing.

"Hey, that's unwarranted. You don't even know me," he drawls.

I try to ignore him.

"You don't know me, and you've simply judged against me because I refused to sit on your couch…I don't understand," he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

I whip back around again. "Do you really have that short-term a memory? Are you really that stupid that you can't remember what happened last night?"

He pauses, squinting at me. "That was _you?_" he says, scratching his head.

"Yes," I snap at him. "The girl from the party…?"

"Which one?" he says, his trademark smirk widening across his face. "Because I could have sworn the light in my bedroom made your hair look _blonde_…"

"The only one that shot a stream of booze in your damn face!" I roar, contorting my face like a snake.

Everyone stops. And stares. The entire courtyard is glaring at me.

I try to stop myself from getting any angrier. I've maintained an almost perfect freak-out record, and I won't mess it all up just for this butt-face.

Forget the coffee. I give a last glare at Logan, turn away, and walk right out of the line towards my dorm.

"Sure you don't want your coffee?" he calls after me, his voice taunting me playfully. "My treat!"

"If you bought me a coffee, I'd just drown you in it," I turn back to snap at him. I give an audible scoff and continue on my way.

Why is it that this guy makes me want to rip my hair out? Even so, I feel my cheeks warm with something more than my embarrassment, and my heartbeat is speeding like my mom on the freeway.

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	5. Then Followed Ink Stains and PantHoles

**Hello, all. Thanks for the reviews. Sorry I haven't updated, but I've had exams and such. I feel quite dead, unfortunately. So here's my dead body uploading a new chapter. It's not very long, and I'm sorry about that, but I'll try to get a new chapter up this week, hopefully. **

**Enjoy:**

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It's five on Tuesday evening. The library is virtually empty, with a few stragglers hiding behind the library stacks doing God knows what.

Despite the unbelievable excitement surrounding me, I submerge myself into The World of French Absolutism. It's a rather fascinating read, I am happy to discover as I chew on my pen thoughtfully.

I'm just about to soak in the marvels of Versailles when my pen explodes on my hand—and in my mouth—with a pop.

"Oh, man," I whisper, reaching in my bookbag to find a tissue with which I can mop the mess that is splattered over the book. Without thinking, I reach up and brush strands of hair away from my face. I feel cold ink smear across my nose.

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice has me wishing I were anywhere but here.

Without turning around, I snap, "Go away, Huntzberger." Still desperately trying to clean up the inky blob, I bend over, hoping to hide my face.

To my consternation, he walks around to the other side of the table, facing me. I bend forward even further.

"Hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot, you think?" he says giving me a smile.

I look up in surprise, and wince as he starts laughing.

"Shhh," I hiss, swiping haphazardly at my face. I only succeed in getting more ink on my face.

"_What_ is on your _face_?" he says, choking with laughter. "You look like a Dalmatian," he says, smirking.

"It's _ink_, if you have to know," I say. I have done as much as I can for the book, so I shut it promptly and gather my books. I am not going to stay around to chat with Logan Huntzberger.

"Oh, yea? Well, I'm not your 'friend' or anything, but friend or not, I'm not going to let you walk around in public with that ink smeared across your nose," he says, laughing.

I pause. My eyes widen, as he strides over to where I'm rooted to the carpet. I make a feeble attempt to shake my head, as I find myself basically paralyzed. "No, I don't think that's necessary—"

He swipes his finger across my cheek, making me freeze. My heart is thumping so hard, I think that it's going to initiate an earthquake. I'm almost sure that Logan can feel my heart racing.

He smiles, before saying, "There. It's all gone," cheerfully. "You going back to your room?" he says.

"No. I mean, yes," I say, trying to move towards the door as fast as I can.

"Then maybe I could…"

"No."

"No to what? You didn't even know what I was going to ask." We walk out the door and into the courtyard.

"I'm psychic. I can see through all your words and into that little brain of yours," I say, pinching a centimeter of air to add emphasis.

He laughs. "So tell me, brilliant messenger of God, what my hidden intentions were."

I pause, before forcing a laugh. "You know what your intentions were."

"Yes, but I doubt you do," he says, smiling.

I don't say anything, but I feel my cheeks ignite in flames.

"Okay, fine. I'll go first," he says. "My intentions were only honest, ma'am," he says, giving a short bow in mockery. "I was going to give you a message to pass along to your roommate, Paris. About the paper and all, you know," he says, smiling widely.

Blushing, I avoid his gaze as we head over to my building. The night is cool and breezy, but I feel as if I'm on fire.

"And what did you think my intentions were, Gilmore?" he asks, leaning towards me expectantly.

"I…I thought—"

Before I can get another word out of my mouth, I trip over a stupid brick that is protruding from the rest. Before I fall, I make this weird groaning/moaning/shocked/pained/scared/grunting sound. My books fly out of my hands and land about ten feet ahead. I land on my butt. Hard. Very hard.

"Whoa!" Logan says, reaching a hand out to help me up. _Why is he being so nice? _

I ignore his hand and help myself up, brushing off dust from my pants. "Ow," I say, refraining from rubbing my backside.

"What was that noise you made?" he says, snickering. "It sounded like a pig."

My eyes flash at him angrily. Walking ahead to pick up my thrown books, I ignore him completely as he laughs and jokes at my expense.

I continue on my way to my building, and he continues after me, still laughing like a lunatic.

"What are you laughing at?" I say, turning around against my better judgment.

"Nothing in particular," he says, trying to make his face straight. It doesn't work, and he starts laughing again.

"What? What is it?" I say, exasperated.

"There's a…" he begins, before laughing again. "There's a…_hole in your pants_."

"What?! I screech. "Where? Where is it?"

"Um…where you fell."

I gape at him, before breaking into a run and racing towards my room. "Go away," I sing out, before disappearing into the dorm building.

"See you tomorrow, Gilmore," he answers before finally surrendering. He turns and leaves, to my immense relief.

I unlock the door and shut it behind me quickly, panting.

"Who was that guy who walked you back?" the invisible Paris says, suddenly flicking on the lights.

"Erm…no one," I say, trying to hide my face, which is bright red.

"Liar! It was Huntzberger, wasn't it?" she says.

"Can we…can we talk about this later?" I say feebly, wanting to shut myself in my room.

"No. We can talk about it right now, if you like," Paris says.

"Whatever," I say, pausing. Suddenly, I make a run for my door.

"Oh _no_ you don't!" Paris cries, racing after me.

I shut the door behind me and lock it. "Too late!" I taunt.

"You open this door this instant!" Paris growls. She beats at the door.

"We'll talk later!" I shout over her door-beating.

"Huntzberger? _Huntzberger? _Can this be true?" Paris shouts through the door.

"Oh, can it," I say. "It was nothing. I told him to go away, but he wouldn't. He had a message for you. That's why he was talking to me."

"So what was the message?" she says. I can almost see her tapping her foot impatiently.

"I…I don't…remember," I say.

"Then you're lousy," Paris says, subsiding. She retreats.

It's only then that I remember that Logan never gave me a message for Paris. And I find myself hoping that it hadn't been his intentions at all. [I'm also hoping that Paris didn't catch the hole in my pants. She could tease me about it forever.]

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	6. Then a Nickname of Questionable Origins

**Sorry for the delay. My bad. Here's a new one: Enjoy!**

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I find myself in the coffee cart line, cold, shivering, and almost shaking from a caffeine lapse, and thinking of Logan Huntzberger.

Of course I am thinking about how much I hate him. That should be obvious. This morning, over breakfast, Paris grilled me about him walking me back to the room. I insisted to Paris that I had insisted to Logan that he stay away from me. She didn't buy it.

I am grumpy. All through the Professor Goetlieb's lecture, I was plotting all the ways I could get back at Huntzberger for humiliating me. He makes me feel like a stupid, clumsy little girl, and I hate that feeling.

After my English lecture, I walk to the Daily News, where Paris is terrorizing some of the new reporters.

"Hello, Paris," I say loudly, and as soon as she turns her head, the little freshmen scatter away, frightened.

"Gilmore," Paris says, nodding. She is still a little tense about our row this morning. "I'm trying to figure out who I'm going to give the assignment to…" she says, peering around at the reporters.

"What assignment?" I ask, following her gaze.

"The article on the new library chamber," she says. "It's by far the suckiest topic, and I want to give it to the suckiest reporter so I have a reason to give 'em the boot," she prowls around like a predator.

"Right," I say, nodding as if I understand her. "Anyway, I've finished my article and sent it to you already. Anything you need me to do?" I said, following her as she circled the room like a hawk.

"…Nope," she says tersely, a little agitated at my interruption of her hunt.

"Are you still angry?" I ask, exasperated. She stops dead in her tracks and turns on her heel to face me.

"No. But I'm busy. Can't you see I'm busy? God, Gilmore, you think being editor is a walk in the park?" Paris snaps rudely. "If you're looking for someone to _mess around with,_ go find Logan. I'm sure he'd fit the bill quite nicely." And with that, she turned and flounced away, before roaring at a couple of reporters taking a water break.

I stare after her, open-mouthed. The nerve of her! Suggesting that me and _Huntzberger_—

"Gilmore," Logan greets me from behind.

I give him a death glare.

He looks at me quizzically, but with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Did I hear my name mentioned just a second ago?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrow with mock concentration. "I could have sworn…" he stops when he sees me glaring at him with a look that could kill.

I roll my eyes, turn on my heel, and head to my desk, ignoring his attempt at mock confusion.

"Hey," he calls from behind me as I sort out some papers on my desk. Sitting down in my comfy office chair, I ignore him again.

He comes and rests his arms on my file cabinet. "I just wanted to let you know that I was impressed with your article."

I look up skeptically.

"People loved reading about your views on feminism, your invectives thrown at Ernest Belfort Bax for his underlying claims that all women are bluffers and act under false pretenses. And who can forget your immortalization of Mary Wollstonecraft?" he says, looking quite serious. There was a mixed admiration in his voice.

I nod curtly. "Thank you," I said, refusing to look at him.

He didn't move.

"Did you need something else?" I ask, reaching for my laptop.

"I have a proposition."

"Sorry. I'm pretty busy right now," I manage with all the nonchalance I can muster. Even so, I feel my cheeks burn under his heavy gaze.

"It'll only take a moment," he assures me, a twinkle in his eye.

I am silent.

He seems satisfied at my compliance. Tilting his head to his side, he watches me as I boot up my laptop. "I was…wondering…" he trails off.

As I wait for my password window to pop up on my computer, I shift my eyes up towards him and meet his gaze. "Need a prompt?" I say, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

"That'd be great," his face cracks into a grin, and he leans towards me a little more. "Scratch that line. Let me start again." He sucks in his breath, moves his neck from side to side, and pumps his shoulders as if he's about to give a presentation. "I was _hoping…_that you would accompany me to dinner tonight," he says very politely, replacing his usually mischievous grin with an expression of complete courtesy. "How'd I do that time?" he asks, his eyes sparkling with boyish mischief.

I type in my password, waiting for my desktop to load while I say, "Is that my cue?" I try to stop my mouth from curving into a smile.

"Yes," he says, moving in towards me. "And I believe your line is— "

"No," I say. "Absolutely not. Thank you for the invitation, but I'm afraid I must decline this time," I say, brushing my hair from my face again nervously. "Now, if you could excuse me, I'm quite busy."

I back my spinny-wheely office chair from my desk and rise to retrieve something from the printer.

Reaching out suddenly, Logan's hand grabs my wrist gently, yet firmly.

"Just dinner," he says seriously, looking into my eyes.

I never noticed how brilliant Logan's eyes were. They are the kind of eyes that I could drown in: pools of rich, golden brown, the color of—well, coffee. Strangely, even analogies linking to coffee cannot do his eyes justice.

I feel my resolve weakening. With exactly the kind of charm that could snap my common sense like a twig, Logan smiles encouragingly, warmly, and I feel the heat rise in my face with wild intensity.

"I…I…" I stammer. I didn't know what to say, and I felt so foolish.

He didn't release his hold on my wrist, and I find myself hoping that our little charade didn't attract too much attention.

"I can take you out right after you're done with your work here," he says soothingly. "I know this really great Thai place, and I think you'd love it."

"I…I don't know," I say. Hitting me again, his smile is just as vibrant as the first.

Suddenly, I look away from his eyes, catching Paris' hateful glare from across the room. Burning with such ferocity, my eyes widened. She had caught me under the influence…of Logan Huntzberger.

"Um…" I squeak in a voice much higher than I had intended. "Maybe another time. Hope that's all right."

I shake Logan's hand off of my wrist and scurry away to the printer. Sorting through the pages, I find my printed article and turn to head to my desk.

I find myself head to head with Paris Geller.

Note to self: never get Paris Geller angry if you want to get away with your life and/or dignity.

"_What was that?"_ she snarls, looking like a mix breed between a cobra and an elephant. Her teeth are bared like a reptile waiting to strike, but her ears are abnormally large and quite distracting, especially when I'm supposed to look contrite.

"…What? What was what?" I say a little too quickly.

"_Don't _you act all innocent to me!" she says so fiercely that I can feel her spit flying.

"Eew," I whisper, wiping my forehead. "You just spat on me!"

"You're damn right I did!" Paris roared, making our little show the most watched in the newsroom. "Keep in mind that's literally _and _figuratively!" she growled, jabbing a finger at me. "Oh yea, _I went there!"_

"What…what?"

She leans in towards me to shield the contents of our conversation. "You little liar. No, there's nothing between me and Huntzberger, nothing at all! You almost had me fooled, didn't you? Thought you could get away with it, didn't you? Well, you're wrong! You're just so _wrong!"_

I clasp my hands nervously, glancing around to see that Logan was out of earshot. "Private and professional business separate, Paris," I whisper. "And out of my own defense, I was not lying, I just said—"

"I'm the editor of this whole shebang, FYI, Gilmore. And so, as editor, I can keep my private and professional lives _tight!_ In fact, if I wanted to, I could get them shaken _and _stirred! Just watch me make a margarita out of this one!" she shouted insanely.

"Paris, I really think you need to calm down."

"Article, discuss the new library chamber. In my hand, 8 a.m. tomorrow," Paris says. She walks away before I can get a word in edgewise.

I want to throw something at her retreating head. But something tells me that's not the way to go.

I expect to stay in the newsroom…oh, until the wee hours of morning.

…

…

At fifteen before one in the morning, I finished my masterpiece. There's not much I can do to a topic so bad, but I feel that I've done my best.

The last person to leave before me was Davis Baron. He left at 8: 15.

I turn off my computer after printing my article and delivering it to Chief Paris' desk. I pack up my bags and pens and highlighters and books, and grab my coat. Five empty coffee cups and two espresso mugs litter my desk. There is no way I'll be able to fall asleep tonight. I take one of the espresso mugs, half empty, and bundle up, ready to face the harshness of nature.

It's really cold. Winter is steadily approaching, yet I feel that Christmas can't come soon enough. I lock up the newsroom, brace myself, and throw myself out into the harsh December cold. The biting wind nips at my fingers and my face, so icy that it feels instead like a raging fire.

Suddenly there's a tap on my shoulder. I let out a scream, dropping my espresso mug, spilling the warm liquid all over the cobblestone ground.

"Shh!" I hear a familiar voice.

"Logan?" I ask incredulously. "What're you doing here? It's almost one!" I reach down to pick up the fallen espresso mug and toss it into the trash can gingerly.

"I was hoping you'd change your mind about dinner," he says, looking hopeful.

"I don't think so. It's so late," I say, shaking my head in disapproval. I can scarcely believe that he had waited.

"You can't tell me that I waited around for hours…just to be refused," he says, looking like a sad, forlorn little boy.

Pausing, I think carefully. "Oh, fine. But only for a little while," I warn.

Grinning, he says, "Right. No worries, though, we'll only go across campus. Too late for Thai, so there's always breakfast," he says.

"Breakfast for dinner. Sounds plausible, I suppose," I say, feeling a little optimistic. "Let's go, then," I start walking ahead.

"Whoa, where are you going?" he asks, grabbing my hand. "I have a car you know. I'm not about to let you walk around in freezing weather," he says, smiling.

"Oh, right. I'm sure your Porsche will transport us there in a snap," I say, rolling my eyes.

"You got that right," he says, grinning. He leads me to the student parking lot. "Except I have a Lamborghini."

"Of course you do," I sigh. I don't want to admit how much my heartbeat is fluctuating.

"C'mon, then, Ace," he calls to me. He runs out into the crazy, windy weather and turns to face me. Waving his arms stupidly, he looks like a ridiculous spectacle at the zoo.

"What did you say?" I say, following him at my own pace.

"Let's go, Ace," he repeats, laughing.

"I'm not really a gambler," I say, crossing my arms with disapproval.

He laughs his musical, songlike laugh. "Not that Ace. Ace as in 'Ace Reporter'." Giving me a bright smile, he ruffles my hair playfully.

I shake his hand off of my head.

"Ace Reporter," he repeats. "That's you."

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